


At The Border of Utopia, I'll Toast to Anarchy

by glitchesaintshit



Series: dank polycule shit [6]
Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Corey Taylor is a Nuisance, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Watersports, as a treat, corey can have a little, is there an award for softest face-pissing ever cuz i think i won it, jim has the patience of a saint, which basically just means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchesaintshit/pseuds/glitchesaintshit
Summary: Jim’s got Terminal Service Top Disease which means he sometimes he bends over backwards to make people happy, and "people" basically always means Corey Taylor.aka the one where noted pee gremlin corey taylor tries to seduce a mfkr into rekking his shit & somehow succeeds
Relationships: Jim Root/Corey Taylor
Series: dank polycule shit [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490663
Comments: 19
Kudos: 47





	At The Border of Utopia, I'll Toast to Anarchy

**Author's Note:**

> _Open up the gates of hell and roll me through  
>  Fire and rock--I'm coming home to you_
> 
> did Unofficial Bodily Fluids Week ever end????? is this just our life now???  
> idk but my tumblr dash has been nothing but sid pissing directly in clown's face for like two fcking days and Y'ALL ARE NASTY so HERE'S SOME BULLSHIT
> 
> not my kink!!! not my kink!!! do not roast me!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> luke asked "do we, as a fanbase, really need more piss. Don't We Have Enough"  
> and clearly the answer was no there's always room for more piss. it's all canon. we're drowning in piss here  
> i'm just here for the character development which y'know, is mighty bold of me of all people to say
> 
> set during AHIG for no reason other than it seemed like the right thing to do  
> 
> 
> ty marina for everything cuz without you i'd be nothing  
> title from "Roll Me Through the Gates of Hell" by Mischief Brew aka my mood every time i get somehow dragged into another Bodily Fluids excursion

Jim’s got Terminal Service Top Disease which means he does a lot of shit he does not Actually Want To Do Right Now (Or Like, Ever) Just Because Somebody Wants Him To, and that Somebody is usually Corey, let’s be honest with ourselves. 

Which is how he ends up cornered in a venue shower when he’s already naked and vulnerable, just trying to get his post-show hose-down on but Corey’s _Corey_ , he’s fucking unstoppable. He’s a nuisance at best, a freight train sliding sideways off the tracks into a sewage treatment plant at worst. On a ninety degree day. In Nebraska.

Nightmare fucking scenario, basically. But there’s just no stopping him. 

And like, his dick’s already hard when he’s shoving Jim out of the spray and up against the cold tile in some sort of horrible feat of strength, wrapping his arms around his neck and mumbling “ _hey_ ” with his best approximation of what he’d call _bedroom eyes_ , which don’t really ever come out right on him cuz he’s a fucking goblin, an asshole and a loudmouth and disgusting and wanton and slutty and stupid and so fucking smart and scheming and mischievous, and Jim’s in love with him. Has been for like, fifteen fucking years. It’s a problem. Corey Taylor is a fucking problem. 

And Jim reaches up and brushes the wet hair back from Corey’s face, rubbing the shaved side of his head and pulling him into a soft kiss. It’s nice. It feels good, the way his body’s pressed against Jim’s, the wet slide of their skin. His boner nudging at Jim’s thigh. It’s good. He’s happy about it, y’know. The way things are easy. 

But then Corey says “ _hey_ ” again, but this time more insistently, and Jim’s halfway through spitting out “ _what do you_ want, _motherfucker_ ” between soft bites to Corey’s shoulder, the side of his stupid neck, just trying to get hands on the curve of his ass--the soft crease where it meets the back of his thigh, the bruises he knows they left there a few days ago in an incident involving Paul and Shawn and Corey’s own belt and somehow Jim being the one getting facefucked after that, even though surely logic would dictate that the one getting their ass beat recreationally would then return the favor in the form of blowjobs, _y’know_ \--when Corey busts out with “ _piss on me_ ” and Jim gets whiplash so hard he could get a personal injury attorney for it.

“ _What?_ Fucking-- _no_ , don’t be fucking gross,” he stammers, smacking Corey’s stupid ass for emphasis and biting down just over his kanji tattoo in a way that hopefully says _I mean it_ but probably says _yes, whatever you want, I’m a total fucking dumbass and will do literally anything you ask_ because, y’know. Jim would cut out his lung and hand it to him if it’d make Corey happy, because he’s a fucking idiot and they’re gross. They’re both gross. Jim knows this. 

Corey Taylor is a fucking problem. 

Which is why his mouth is saying “ _yeah, c’mon_ ” and his stupid hand is sliding into Jim’s hair and pulling, light enough to not really hurt but definitely enough to make his skin flush and his knees a little weak, and Corey’s stupid boner is still pressing insistently into his thigh and he feels ragged, a little frayed around the edges, a little muzzy and messy and wanton and slutty, the way he presses back. Lets himself be pulled. Wet skin sliding together, open mouthed breaths in the side of Corey’s neck. Warm, contact, steam and the last remains of sweat and Jim’s fingers digging into a bruise and making Corey's breath catch by his ear for a second before he clenches his fingers into a fist in Jim’s hair, tugging him out of the reverie of just enjoying a nice moment together, touching dicks and making out in a venue shower. Y’know. Like best friends do. Just guys being dudes being boyfriends.

Corey Taylor is a fucking nuisance. 

Which is why he says “ _serious_ ” and shifts his hips so he’s undeniably rubbing his dick on Jim’s thigh, and Jim would probably do whatever he asked. Murder wouldn’t even be out of the question, y’know. If Corey said _hey go kill that guy_ , Jim would ask how high. He’s just that fucking good. Jim hates him for it. Loves him. Would die for him, probably, if he asked nice.

Stupid asshole. Big mouth idiot piss gremlin. 

Rude as hell. 

“I know you got it in you. I saw you drink, like, a fucking _gallon_ of Gatorade--”

“And then I sweated! Y’know. I play _guitar?_ It’s sweaty work?”

Corey snorts a laugh, pressing Jim further back into the wall if that were even possible. “Oh come _on_ , the fucking--sweat to Gatorade to piss ratio is _not_ \--”

“I’m not gonna fucking _pee_ on you,” Jim says in a way that hopefully implies _other bodily fluids aren’t off limits today_ , a.k.a. _Yes I Will Nut on Your Face_ , but probably says _I am a giant stupid idiot and would send myself through a meat grinder if you asked nicely_. With a cherry on top. “There’s like, _at least_ seven other guys available to pee on you, why’s it gotta be me--”

“ _Cuz I want you to_ ,” Corey says and then he’s down on his knees faster than Jim can even process it, legs spreading a little as he starts jerking off like they’re not even talking right now, and Jim feels slackjawed and stupid about it. 

Watching Corey beat off. It’s always a good time. 

It’s how Corey gets what he wants, y’know, but he looks so goddamn good doing it--all flushed and desperate and a little stupid, casual and like that’s his _purpose in life_ , fuck music; Corey should go into the jerking off business cuz clearly he’s got the _talent_ \--that even though Jim knows he’s being manipulated he’s fine. He’s good. He could do this all day, watching Corey crank one in a venue shower where the chances of them being walked in on are more than not, cuz Corey’s also an exhibitionist and a known pervert in addition to, y’know. The piss thing. 

And the foot thing. And most of his other things. 

But anybody that could walk in on them--with Corey down on his knees rubbing one out and Jim staring at him stupid and saying _no, I will not fucking pee on you for the thousandth time, I have already peed on you nine hundred and ninety-nine times too many_ \--has also already pissed on Corey definitely more than once, so. Y’know. 

Not the worst possible scenario.

“ _No_ ,” Jim says as firmly as he can, given the circumstances. The circumstances being Corey’s free hand slipping up the back of Jim’s thigh as his own legs drop open a little further and his hips press up toward nothing, propelled by sheer force of horniness alone and like _alright_ , okay, y’know. Goddammit. Fuck. _Fuck_ , alright. 

_Shit._

And Corey’s stupid mouth says, “ _please?_ ” and his eyes are just a little glazed and blue and sparkling, and his lip catches in his teeth in just the tiniest blink-and-you’d-miss-it way and the tip of his tongue pushes against the back of his stupid fucked-up bottom teeth and y’know, _okay_ , Jim’s fucked up. He’s fucking fucked up. He’d run to the ends of the earth for this motherfucker. Best friends or boyfriends or whatever they are, this is, they’ve always been. 

A little piss is nothing between friends. Water under the bridge, so to speak. The bridge in this scenario just being Corey’s face or whatever. Y’know. _Fuck_. He’s disgusting. 

Jim loves him anyway.

“Y’know, if you give me a boner I’m not gonna be able to,” he says, sliding a thumb over Corey’s bottom lip before gently hooking it into his cheek and Corey can’t decide whether to bite him or suck on it so y’know. He does both. “ _Not_ helping--”

“Yeah, yeah, quit your bitching.” His hand falls away from Jim’s ass though, and Jim gives him a look that hopefully says _MY bitching??_ , as if Corey wasn’t the one fucking whining to be pissed on when all Jim wanted to do was shower and maybe make out, maybe do some light butt stuff in the safety of the hotel room and not, y’know, indulge Corey’s piss kink in the fucking venue shower where anybody could wander in and make it into some big production. 

Corey doesn’t stop jerking off though, but that’s fine. Jim can live with that. If he’s gotta pee on the guy then at least it’s good to know he’s enjoying himself. 

And y’know, it’s easy. It’s fucked up how easy it is. Maybe cuz it’s something he does too many times a day anyway, since like his goal for the new year was to drink more water and stop living in low-grade dehydration all the time and being a headachey sad sack whose knees fucking hurt for no reason, but it’s easy. Once Corey quits touching his butt anyway. It’s hard to piss with a semi but it’s even harder to piss with a semi _and_ somebody rubbing your butt, that’s just like. A fact of life Jim’s unfortunately had to discover and half the reason he doesn’t trust himself to go to class reunions and shit. He can’t go through life just holding this knowledge and not accidentally blurt it out in front of the former captain of the cheer squad or whatever, y’know. 

Just. Dick in hand. Ready, aim, fire. 

Corey’s gasp chokes out into a satisfied groan and Jim’s never been one to look, y’know. When the pissing is occurring. He’s not really a fan. He’d rather stare at the ceiling or whatever but he can’t take his eyes off of Corey, laser-focused in on his big blue eyes, looking glazed and fucked-up and a little bit someplace else, someplace Jim might be headed himself; something like elated and also _impossibly_ horny, and he shifts on the tile and the hand on his dick is flying faster and it’s gross, the way the unmistakable sound of male masturbation gets both louder and wetter cuz y’know, there’s _more liquid flying around_ , and Jim’s just trying to focus on the actual peeing but it’s hard. It’s _really **fucking** hard_ cuz Corey’s still jerking off like his life depends on it, like he could cum from just this, and he’s fucking moaning and carrying on and it takes everything in Jim’s resolve _not_ to get a boner and when he falters for half a second, has to work back up to maximum water pressure so to speak, Corey drops his fucking head and opens his mouth and it’s sort of like being stabbed, the noise that comes out of the man on the floor in front of him _whose mouth he is fucking pissing in_ is so desperate and so perfect and fuck. _Fuck_. 

Jim loves him so fucking much. 

It’s fucking disugsting, and Jim loves him, and he’d drink two gallons of Gatorade a day if it would make Corey happy even though, y’know--sweat to Gatorade to piss ratio, it’s gross as fuck. But Corey likes it. So Jim does it. Even when the tank’s fucking empty, so to speak, Corey likes it and when Jim takes the half a step forward to smear his dick against Corey’s wet cheek he’s still cranking it like there’s no tomorrow and letting out these soft little groans and breathing a string of curses into Jim’s hip and Jim doesn’t say anything at all; just dips the head of his cock into Corey’s waiting mouth, warm and wet and fucking nasty, debauched, ruined completely. Gets a grip on Corey’s wet hair and tugs gently cuz he knows Corey fucking loves that shit and he fucking loves Corey.

And instead of just sitting there content having been peed on like a normal person, like any sane person would expect Corey whines and shoves his face into Jim’s thigh and bites him softly and moans, still working his dick like it’s going out of style and breathing hard and that’s just pure adrenaline to Jim’s frayed fucking nerves.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, pushing Corey’s hair back again and Corey nods against his leg, breath stuttering a little as he twists his hand on his own cock.

“Yeah, _fuck_ ,” Corey breathes, open-mouthed. Dragging his lips across Jim’s skin and y’know. If Jim wasn’t into it before, he’s definitely into this. Even knowing what he just did, knowing how gross Corey is. Maybe that’s the masochist in him. Still wanting it even when he knows that despite being in the damn venue shower, Corey’s about as filthy as the dumpster out back. Y’know. 

“Lemme suck your cock,” he murmurs to the damp skin of Jim’s thigh, big stupid mouth already all wrecked and slutty and desperate. Y’know. Fuckable. 

Jesus. _Fuck_. 

Shit.

“ _Jesus Christ_. Was getting peed on not enough for you?”

“Nope,” Corey breathes, smashing his face back into Jim’s thigh for emphasis and _god_ , god that’s-- _something_. Something dangerous and filthy and Jim’s along for the ride anyway cuz his dick is very much paying attention to this conversation and the soft wet sounds of skin on skin in Corey’s lap, his fucking legs spreading just a little bit wider as if to prove a point. “Want it. Want you.”

And y’know, Corey Taylor’s a fucking problem. Corey Taylor’s a fucking nuisance. Corey Taylor’s his best fucking friend and Jim would commit multiple felonies if he just asked, and he’s down there with his face pressed to Jim’s thigh and his fist impossibly tight around his own dick, drenched in Jim’s fucking piss because he asked--and that’s how they got here in the first place, Corey fucking _asked_ , said “ _come join this band I miss you I’m sorry for fucking leaving_ ” and then Jim’s ass was on a plane to California and then he thought it’d only be one album, but one became two, two became a side project, side project became a third and another side project one and now a fourth and they have a fucking _Grammy_ but it’s the same old shit, the two of them in a venue shower, Corey always pushing for more and Jim pushing back but giving it to him anyway because they’re both morons and idiots and stupid fools in love, something more than best friends til the end no matter how much that irritates the rest of them at times--and he turns his eyes up at Jim, sparkling and vacant and blown-out and blue, stares directly into Jim’s fucking _soul_ or maybe out past it and breathes something like “ _please_ ” or maybe “ _come in my mouth_ ” or maybe it’s both but it doesn’t matter cuz okay. Jim can fucking handle that. He’s all a-fucking- _bout_ that. 

And it’s easy. Easy to wind his fingers into Corey’s gross dirty hair and hold him there, fuck up into his mouth all hot and wet and sloppy while he cranks his own dick furiously and Jim’s stammering out “ _jesus, dude, you’re gonna get rugburn down there_ ” which just makes Corey moan cuz he’s a pervert and a masochist and likes to be beat with his own belt and get his face fucked after getting peed on by one of his infinite boyfriends, one of whom could walk in at any second cuz they’re still in the venue shower cuz he doesn’t do shit like _waiting_ or _not right now_ which Mick says is because he’s a Sagittarius but Jim says is because he’s an asshole but they all love him anyway and Jim fucking loves him the most of all and that’s why he’s here. Will always be here. Him & Corey & the damp slide of skin on skin. Steam and warm and mouth, lips, tongue; soft and rough in all the right ways, sandpaper fingertips digging into Jim’s thigh.

And it’s quick, cuz Corey’s fucking good, and Jim holds his fucking breath when he comes deep down the back of Corey’s throat and holds him there with a hand on his skull and that does it for him cuz he’s gagging and moaning and coming in his own fist at the same time and Jim can’t watch cuz it’s like staring into the fucking sun, it’s just. Too much all at once. 

And as soon as his dick’s clear of the danger zone he slaps Corey in the face a couple times for good measure, cuz when he gets Like This-- _piss on me, come in my mouth, hell yeah I want rugburn on my dick_ \--that’s what he always wants, and he moans loud and broken and thanks him cuz Jim is right. Cuz he can read Corey Taylor like a fucking book, even if the book is mostly just pictures of dicks and titties cuz Corey’s real simple when he’s fucked-out. And the sound echoes off the walls & Jim’s sure that’s basically the dinner bell for the rest of the gang so he helps pull Corey to his feet on shaky legs; nudges him back under the shower spray and just holds him, watching water run in tiny rivers over the tattoos on his back. Kissing the top of his gross pissy head. Saying he’s proud, even if he didn’t fucking ask for this.

Because Corey Taylor is a fucking nuisance, and Jim fucking adores him despite that.

-

“Smells like fucking piss in here,” Mick announces when he rolls in, dropping his towel by the door. “The fuck you been doing? _Cuddling??_ ”

“Had to unclog the pipes,” Jim says vaguely.

“ _Jim peed on me_ ,” Corey declares loud enough for the whole western hemisphere to hear, cuz y’know. _Goddammit_. Corey Taylor is a fucking problem.

“Fucking--gross, dude, what’s always with the goddamn pee? _Je-sus_.”

“I like the taste.”

“Fucking _gross_ ,” Mick says, chucking a travel-size bottle of something at Corey while Jim attempts to slow dissolve into the floor or sneak out without being noticed, whichever seems more likely. “Wash your hair, you gross little man. And you better brush your fucking teeth before you get near me, I don’t want your piss-mouth on my dick today, y’know-- _c’mon_ \--”

And Jim just listens to them bitch, Corey trotting out the same argument about pee actually being inert that he tries every time and Mick is never having, and washes his own hair and y’know. It’s safe. It’s right. 

It feels good, and they’re both loved, and that’s what matters.


End file.
